


Thank You, John

by Iocane



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hallucinations, Mental Breakdown, Mind Palace, Psychological Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 06:42:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1002193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iocane/pseuds/Iocane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's mind is a powerful thing, and will do whatever is necessary to ensure his survival, even lie to itself.</p><p>Post-Reichenbach</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thank You, John

**Author's Note:**

> This is not a fluffy story. It's not gorey, and there's no heavy violence, but it's rather intense, and not something I want children stumbling upon, hence the rating.
> 
> I personally am a John/Sherlock shipper, but this story isn't actually meant to be a "ship" story, though you're more than welcome to see it that way.
> 
> Trigger warnings for hallucinations, mental illness, insanity, and psychosis.
> 
> \-- 
> 
> This has been betaed by the fantastic Shortlock Holmes. Any remaining errors are therefore my own.
> 
> The title was chosen for reasons that should make sense by the end of the story.

The first few times it happened, Sherlock didn't think anything of it, until later.

He'd been trying to find train schedules for Budapest.

"Here," Without thinking, his thoughts reached towards the voice, mentally snatching the paper in his mind and recalling the times.

"Thank you, John," he murmured to an empty room before checking his disguise and rushing to meet the train.

**

The next thing he needed in his mind palace was a map of Prague.

"It's not in the map room," John had informed him. "It's in the war room already."

The war room was new, it had been slid in between his knowledge of German and what he knew about European cooking. It was set up like world war two war rooms, maps on the walls, a large table in the center, awaiting his battle plans.

He found the map of Prague under a book on conversational Czech.

"Thank you, John."

**

After that it became easy. John seemed to know his mind palace better than Sherlock himself.

But then, John did have a way of making things better, even if Sherlock didn't want him to.

It seemed he seldom had to go beyond the war room of his mind palace, now. John's voice was always there, telling him where to look. Distant, maybe, a touch distorted, as if he was doing something in the kitchen while Sherlock tore the sitting room apart.

The war room grew neater in spite of Sherlock's inclination towards chaos.

Sherlock didn't even notice at first when the skull and cluedo board showed up. The skull sat at the corner of the center map table, and the cluedo board was stabbed into the wall beside the map of the Venice canal system.

The John in his mind palace also served as a constant reminder of why he was doing this, and why he was alone. He couldn't risk the real John getting hurt, not because of him. And Sherlock knew that simply targeting the three snipers wouldn't help. No doubt there were orders, bounties all through the network – should these snipers fall, others would take their place, and more after them.

No, the only way to effectively eliminate the threats were from the ground up.

"I need-" Sherlock heard a rustle and turned, the information he'd been seeking fluttered onto the central map table, as if John deposited it on his way by. Sherlock could almost see a shadow where John should have been, but when he turned, the war room was empty.

"Thank you, John."

**

When Sherlock went to refresh his memory of the French underworld, he finally noticed some of the changes. The cludo board had been joined by the skull poster from the flat. And John – for it must have been John – had spray painted a smiley face onto the wall beside a map of London. The wallpaper wasn't right, but the touch of home was a welcome one.

After some time refreshing himself, Sherlock allowed himself a rare break. He had limited time, and less to do with it, as he needed to wait till cover of night to make any more progress.

There was not enough to sleep, but long enough to relax, just a bit. He decided to explore his mind palace. Or more specifically, the war room. More trinkets of his old life had arrived. One of the shelves of information had taken on the molding of the mantle at the flat.

A window had grown in between maps of eastern Europe and the Paris subway system. Beside it stood his music stand and violin. As he stood before it, he swallowed tightly. He hadn't let himself think of his violin since he left, losing it hurt almost as much as losing John.

"You can play if you want," John said behind him, so close that Sherlock could almost feel his heat. Whipping around, Sherlock saw only dust in the sunlight.

His fingers brushed the warm strings of his beloved instrument.

"Thank you, John."

**

The first time he killed a man, he was calm until he returned to his stolen hotel room.

Once he was sitting on the bed, he began to shake.

"There's blood on my hands." He wasn't in his mind palace but his need for John was strong enough that it didn't matter.

"No there isn't, you garotted him-"

"Don't be an idiot." He could hear John so clearly now, as if he were right there. He didn't dare try to look, terrified he would vanish.

"- and you only did what you needed to do. He was a bad man, he needed to die. I've killed people. See?" John held out his hands, and Sherlock actually looked at them, remembering the real John's hands. It was the first time he'd been permitted to gaze on the occupant of his mind palace, and only his hands, now.

This John had smoother hands, softer. The hands of a man who never worked, who spent his days and nights sorting through memories. But they were still John's hands, the warm hands that ignored Sherlock's protests and tended to his cuts and bruises. The firm but gentle hands that held his wounds together and stitched them. Small, but so very, very capable.

And utterly devoid of blood. The cabbie hadn't been John's first kill, not by a long shot. He'd killed men in combat, both at a distance and close up. And his hands were free of blood.

Sherlock knew John was a good man, so perhaps … Sherlock looked down at his own hands, tugging his gloves off with sudden, sharp movements as if they burned him. Light flared as he switched on the bedside lamp and he looked down at his own hands. No blood.

"Thank you, John," he whispered.

**

On some cold, quiet nights, Sherlock wondered if he was going mad. If this mind palace John was a sign of a cracking pysche. In the end, though, he decided it didn't matter. The results of his work were real enough, why should it matter what tools he used in that work?

On those nights, he avoided the mind palace, denied himself John's voice, the small comforts of the war room.

Other nights, he reveled in them. He would sit in his chair beside the fireplace and go through his accumulated knowledge, planning his next move.

He always took care to hold any papers in front of his face, so he couldn't see the empty chair across from him. It allowed John's voice to seem closer. Since Sherlock's first kill, he had seen glimpses of John. Mostly shadows and hope, but occasionally he'd see a hand offering him a book, a foot tapping gently when Sherlock was working his way through a pile of facts.

All of this combined with the elusive, never-quite close enough sound of John's voice. If he managed the paper trick, he could convince himself that John was right there, his voice crisp and clear. Otherwise, John's voice was distant and a little distorted, as if they had a bad connection on the phone.

Once, as he sat, he heard a faint clatter beside him. Only after a few seconds had passed did he brave a look, seeing a teacup and saucer beside him, the tea was steaming.

"Thank you, John."

**

The worst time for Sherlock was a stretch of nearly a month when he was living hour to hour, never really having a chance to rest. Sherlock had long since picked up the trick of resting his body while keeping his mind alert, always aware of his surroundings. He was unable to so much as think of his mind palace, lest he lose his awareness and allow death to slip in.

There was blood on his hands by the time it was over, actual physical blood, his own and someone elses.

He stumbled through the door of his hotel room. Sitting on the bed, was John. Sherlock collapsed to his knees at the sight before he realized the truth. This wasn't proper John. Proper John never looked well lit sitting among shadows. Proper John breathed, blinked, made sounds when he moved. Didn't just sit there and look at him with coolly accepting eyes.

"I missed you," he breathed and actually reached for the ghostly man, who slid to his knees and shuffled forward. Sherlock's blood loss, the ache in his heart, the mental strain allowed him to hold the man he missed so very much. He closed his eyes and he could feel John's warmth against his chest, feel those strong arms around him. John's hair was soft against his cheek and Sherlock didn't bother to hide the tears.

"Come on," John withdrew after a moment, leading Sherlock to the bathroom. "Let's get you stitched up before you bleed to death. Then you rest, you've earned it."

Sherlock peeled his jacket and shirts off, revealing a bloodied chest and side. He was bleeding from a few shallow knife cuts, but the one that needed stitches was across his belly. Not deep enough that sepsis was a concern, but deep enough that stitches were needed.

He watched, distantly, as John washed his stomach. His vision was a bit distorted, his doctor's hands looked larger than usual, fingers longer. He mumbled something to that effect and John just smiled, that soft 'you're an idiot, Sherlock' smile, only it wasn't tinged with annoyance the way it usually was.

John's hands were even shaking a little as he sewed Sherlock up. "I'll be fine, John," He whispered to the air. He couldn't quite feel his hands, but he saw himself reach for John and squeeze his shoulder. John just nodded but worry had crept onto his face.

Finally, John had stitched him up, then quickly washed the rest of the wounds. Sherlock was tucked into bed and he fell asleep with the weight of John's hand on his shoulder.

"Thank you, John."

**

By the light of day, Sherlock realized that last night was the first time he'd actually touched mind palace John, and he spent an hour petrified with near-terror at the thought that he really might be going insane. Finally he lifted the bedcovers, finding himself naked and clean under them. Lifting his head, he examined his stiched up wound. It was a surprisingly good job. But it wasn't John's work, he realized. John would have spaced them more evenly, his knots would be tighter and more consistent. But the work was more professional looking than Sherlock would have thought himself capable of. Perhaps his memory of John had guided him.

For the first time, he considered calling Mycroft, to check with his brother if he'd been showing signs of cracking. Then he realized he would never be certain if the call actually took place. If he could conjure an imaginary facsimile of a real person into his physical awareness, he could just as easily conjure a phone call with his brother.

So he decided, in the end, that his sanity didn't matter, only the work.

With his wound, he couldn't go anywhere for a few days, anyway. With that in mind, he lay back and closed his eyes.

Normally, because Sherlock was, at heart, a poet, whenever he didn't visit his mind palace for a prolonged period, dust would form on the imagined surfaces. But that wasn't the case here, and he soon realized why.

Entering the war room, he saw John, in jeans and that damned oatmeal jumper, dusting. He picked up a replica of the skull from the flat and carefully ran the dust cloth over it, the dome, the crown, the underside, then the eyes and nose before almost brushing its teeth with the cloth. It was something he'd watched dozens of times before the roof at Bart's.

"We're about halfway." John didn't even turn around, as if trusting that Sherlock was there and could hear. He moved on to dust the rest of the mantle. "You've gotten all of the lower level thugs and middle management. The upper echelon is going to be a lot harder."

Sherlock went to sit in the replica of his own chair at the flat. "Six more. But each will take over a month of planning and work. We have to start now."

Sherlock doesn't know when, exactly, his war room had become a copy of his old flat. He also wasn't sure if it eased the ache, or made it worse.

Between them, they came up with a rough outline of the next year of Sherlock's life. It was mostly Sherlock, but as ever, John helped. His blundering questions poked through walls of thought, and revealed whole avenues to Sherlock's awareness.

"Thank you, John."

**

As expected, the following months put the previous weeks to shame in their exhaustion and depravity. The only boon Sherlock received was that it seemed he no longer had to visit his mind palace to have John with him. He began to hear the other man while he worked.

Twice, John had saved his life.

The first was a sharp yank at his arm, pulling him back. The flooring where Sherlock had put the tiniest amount of weight began to crumble, revealing long abandoned machinery below. He might have survived a fall onto a flat surface from that height, but the machines would have left him broken and useless.

The second time, saving Sherlock's life nearly killed him anyway.

John, Sherlock's anchor, the living embodyment of everything and everyone Sherlock cared about, stepped in front of a bullet.

The impact drove John back into Sherlock, toppling them both to the ground, John's body pinning Sherlock's. When the shooter approached to finish the job, Sherlock screamed in rage as he lifted his arm. His hand shook so widly that it took three shots to kill the other man.

"Don't die, John," he said. The other man didn't respond, just lay heavy on Shelrock's chest, making it difficult to breathe.

Sherlock's mind swirled with panic before he forced it to stop. John was shot, and couldn't be moved. Sherlock's own arm was pinned under John, a nerve must be pinched because his arm was hurting and not responding to his commands to move it. He kept shaking John with his good arm, trying to get the man to wake.

He tore at the bullet hole, opening John's clothes to expose it. The material he pulled away from his skin was dark, and Sherlock's mind provded that it must be thick with blood.

Sherlock's right arm was completely unrepsonsive from under John's body, yet it throbbed with pain. Nerve damage, his mind supplied, the impact of John's body must have done some damage, and his continued weight wasn't helping.

John's head rolled back against Sherlock's neck and he was unconcious. Sherlock would have to do this without John's guidance, an idea that made his stomach clench with fear.

This was John. His John, the John who'd kept him safe and sane on his mission. He couldn't lose him now.

His eyes blurry with tears of grief and rage, Sherlock's hand shook as he reached to extract the bullet.

Fingers clumsy and slick with blood probed at the wound, and it wasn't until the bullet slipped free of the wound that Sherlock realized his own voice was hoarse with screaming.

Grief and rage, no doubt. John was in danger, Sherlock knew he wasn't functioning at his best, not trapped as he was under his possibly dying friend.

The bullet was out, at least, he'd now he just had to sew him up. He wished John would wake, rather than lay there with frightening sitllness.

His good hand shaking, Sherlock managed to extract the medical kit from his pocket. He fumbled, dropping it twice before he managed to get it open. His eyes blurry, his hand shook so much he found a needle by stabbing himself with it. Quietly sobbing at the possible loss of … everything, pale, trembling fingers finally pinched a suture needle, already prepared with thread.

"I'll fix it, John. You're going to be okay." The fact that John was unresponsive was frankly terrifying to Sherlock.

He had to struggle to see John, every movement sending stabs of pain down his arm and into his shoulder and making him gasp as his nerves fired erratically, causing unspeakable pain at times.

Once he could see the hole, he pressed the suture to one edge, then through the other, everything growing slick with blood, fingers already sticky from removing the bullet.

He managed another stitch before deciding that was enough. His hand no longer had the strength to break the thread, so he just tucked the suture itself into a fold of clothing and began to bandage the wound.

At some point he began to whisper to John. Quiet, desperate pleas for him to wake, to tell Sherlock what to do. To please, please odn't die. Telling John how much he was needed, that he was doing all of this for John. Everything was to keep John safe, and now John had gone and almost gotten himself killed.

By the time the last bandage was in place, Sherlock was blind with tears and ready to pass out from exhaustion. He couldn't, though, wouldn't allow himself that luxury, not with John possibly dying.

After staring at his friend's still face for an unknown length of time, John's eyes opened, clear and blue and his lips quirked into a smile at Sherlock. That was enough, John would survive, he told himself, and quickly fled into oblivion.

When Sherlock woke, it was with a cry of pain and the sudden, sharp awareness that he'd been shot. "John?" His voice was panciked even to his own ears as he tried to sit up with one arm. When that proved fuitle, he reached for his shoulder, groaning at the pain the moveent caused. He swallowed when he felt the bulky bandage and found the loop of thread connected to the suture, which was between two layers of bandage.

Not for the first time, Sherlock wondered if his sanity would return once he was through. Moments like this, it sickened him how easily his mind betrayed him, conjuring up false gods-

"That's not how it is, Sherlock, and you know it," John's voice echoed firmly in his ears and mind.

"I know," he admitted, tears sliding down his face as he finally managed to sit up again, gasping in pain at the end of it.

He let himself weep once more, unsure if it was for John or himself.

After some time, a weight rested on his shoulders and a faint whif of sweat and cologne filled his head. "You're almost done," John's warm voice assured him and Sherlock drew on that strength.

"Thank you, John,"

**

He was now beyond the point where he tried to rationalize anything to do with this John. He simply accepted it.

When Sherlock needed to rest, he had John with him to keep him company. They never spoke, not really. Sometimes John would say something, a reminder of some old memory that made Sherlock smile into the darkness.

Finally, as he pushed the body of Sebastian Moran off of him, Sherlock knew it was over. He called Mycroft, not even bothering to go back to his hotel. He was done, Mycroft could take over now.

"I don't want you to go," He said, warm tears gliding down his face. He could see John, kneeling before him. Warm and soft, glowing, but fading. Sherlock could see the room through John.

"You don't need me any more." John rested a warm hand on Sherlock's cheek, but when Sherlock reached to press it there, he felt only his own skin.

"No!" John was fading fast, now.

"You'll be fine, Sherlock. Soon you'll be back where you belong. And so will I."

Sherlock scrambled forward, desperate arms wrapping around cold air as he tried to pull John against him, needing that warm embrace once more. "No, John!" His voice echoed, flat and hollow, in the large space.

Realizing that John was gone, Sherlock collapsed in on himself. He fell to his side, knees drawn to his chest, arms around them. Retreating, he went into his mind palace, seeking the comfort of his war room. Their war room.

But it wasn't there. He searched every inch of the palace. Locked doors were kicked to splinters when his mind couldn't remember how to unlock them. Walls were viciously torn apart, floorboards ripped up in the hopes of finding some secret access to the war room. All to no avail.

In his madness, he realized that, after everything John had done, as he was fading, Sherlock hadn't thanked him.

Tears slid down pale cheeks to gather in the dust, and three tiny words melted unheard into the silence.

"Thank you, John."

**

When Mycroft's men found him, he was curled up on his side. He didn't respond, didn't move or open his eyes. Every now and then he could be heard to whisper "Thank you, John" followed by a quieter, admonishing "It's too late."

He didn't show signs of recovery for days, not until he was back in England.

When his mind John had vanished, Sherlock had been on the roof at Bart's all over again, his heart shredding itself as he said goodbye to the one person … He couldn't even think it, now.

Sherlock didn't let himself think about what sort of reception he'd get when he opened the door to the old flat. Mycroft said John had finally moved back in, only a few months before.

This John was so different … Thinner, greyer. The blow was a surprise, but it wasn't as powerful as he knew it could have been. He was rocked back on his heels but he didn't fall over. Before he could fully recover, the two men were tangled together, arms filling themselves with solid warmth, faces pressed together as they fell to the floor.

They sat there and held each other on the landing, each face stained with tears, hands shaking with the force of their grips. Heartbeats slowly falling into synch. Sherlock’s hand swept up to John’s right shoulder, thumb pressing against where he’d seen his friend get shot. The skin under his thin shirt was smooth, utterly smooth, missing the mate to his scar on the left.

"Is this real?" Sherlock finally asked, not bothering to moderate his voice, the fatigue of the last three years, the worry that he was truly insane, the near giddyness at finally being home were all evident.

"I should be asking the same thing," John's voice came from Sherlock's shoulder, where the doctor's face was pressed.

Christ, that was John's voice. More tired than he recalled, but rougher, warmer, richer and far, far more real than he'd been imagining. He knew this was right. This was real. John was real.

"Thank you, John."


End file.
